The Fourth Musketeer
by 153alira
Summary: "It's in your blood. Fight, get into trouble, make mistakes and learn from them. Fight, love, live. Never forget who you are. You are Charlotte D'Artangan." She would always remember who she was and no man, be it cardinal or Duke would stand in her way. A story where D'Artangan is a woman and a very stubborn one at that.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer, I own nothing of The Three Musketeers.**

**Hi all. So this movie is a bit of a guilty pleasure for me, I mean come on who doesn't like men with swords and leather? I was playing around with this idea for a while and finally decided to give it a shot. Yes it is a female D'Artangan fic and there are a few floating around already. I just decided to through in my two cents.**

**Please leave a review but most importantly enjoy. **

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><p>On the boarder of Gascony, on an overlook high above a small farm, two skilled swordsmen practiced by a dead tree.<p>

A master and his protégé.

With great speed and precision the two parried and blocked in perfect tandem, the younger gaining the upper hand slowly. With a clever flick of the wrist, the master lost his sword to his opponent and with it his victory, or so it looked like.

"Look down," Marius said, his dagger aimed at his protégé's abdomen while his other hand held back her left arm. "Just a trick an old fried taught me. Remember, your opponent will not always be so noble. But well done Charlotte."

The two ceases and panted loudly to regain their breath, all the while the young lady swordsman twirled both swords in her hands, "A dirty trick Father."

"You'll be surprised how many times it saved my life." Her father smiled. "Consider this one your last lesson."

"You still have much to teach me." Charlotte handed his weapon back for him to take back. The old warrior shook his head. "I believe I taught you all I can. The rest is up to you from now on."

Charlotte sighed and lifted her head to the sky. It was a cloudy day with little to no sun to be seen.

"Come. Your mother with have dinner ready by now and this will be our last meal together as a family for a long while."

_'Ah yes.'_ Charlotte internally sighed. Tomorrow was indeed a very important day for her.

There was a pleasant smell of stew filling up the small farm house when Charlotte and her father opened the kitchen door. An older, but still very beautiful woman with light sable hair pinned back was cutting some fresh bread to go with it.

"Smells wonderful my love." Marius said, taking off his sword. "Rabbit I presume?"

"Yes." Sophia turned around, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. "Found it in one of the traps this morning. Charlotte?"

The young woman was halfway to the stairs, "Yes Mama?"

"Please wash up and put something nice on." She indicated to the flimsy shirt and trousers she insisted on wearing when she and Marius sparred.

"Yes Mama." Charlotte nodded and ran up the stairs, one hand griping her sword tightly. She closed the door to her small room quietly and let out a long groan once she was sure she was out of ear shot. He body ached from the drilling her father put her through that afternoon and her skin longed to be cleaned. She stripped down and filled the wash bowel with the water her mother had left out for her. It had cooled and left her chilled as she poured it over her arms. But she wasn't thinking about that, she was busy planning for tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would leave her small home in Gascony for the capital Paris, where she would be expected to find an apprenticeship with an old friend of her mother's who worked as a prominent seamstress. An ambitious idea for any typical young woman, but Charlotte had an even bigger ambition beyond needles and silks.

With herself washed and freezing, Charlotte dressed herself in a plain chemise and baby blue bodice to appease her mother.

She came downstairs still braiding her hair just at her mother placed the last of the bowels out on the table. She glanced up and nodded in approval with Charlotte's attire.

"Now let us feast." Marius said and the small family tucked into the hot stew. "Your mother is insisting you take Buttercup as a mount." Marius said after a few minutes of silence.

"Only because I trust her the most since you refuse to take a cart." Sophia handed Charlotte a piece of bread. "She may not be the grandest, but she is sturdy and will get you to Paris safely."

"Alright Mama." Charlotte gave a half laugh, "She and I will have mighty adventures indeed." She glanced up at her mother. Sophia just looked a little sad, all the while smiling.

"Now do you remember our agreement?"

"Of course. As soon as I get to Paris, find Madam Flori."

"I've included a letter of introduction. I'm sure she will be more than willing to take you on as an apprentice."

"She may not." Charlotte let slip. She quickly added on, "I mean I can sew in a straight line but that's about it Mama."

"Flori would never refuse you Charlotte. She has known you since you since you but a babe in the crib. In her last letter she mentioned that she is given commissions from the Queen's ladies in waiting from time to time, so she is no doubt in need of extra hands." Her mother assured her.

"Lovely." Charlotte mumbled and tore the bread in two.

"And her salon is very close to the Palace, just near Rue du Renard." Sophia said wistfully, "Do you remember our old home? The little yellow flat next to the bakery?"

Charlotte's hand hovered over the bowel for a second, then she shook her head slowly. She remembered a room filled with sunlight and the permanent smell of burnt sugar, but nothing else. She had been very young when Marius took her and her mother away from Paris to this farm.

"Did you manage to say the last of your goodbyes to your friends?" Sophie asked, changing the subject.

"Honestly I think most of them were glad that was leaving."

"Oh I think Hector will miss you."

Marius, who had been busy eating while the two women talked, looked up from is bowel. "Is that Beaumont lad still pinning after you?"

"It's not pinning Papa. He's just stuck in a delusion that we are somehow childhood sweethearts." The two of them shared an amused snort while Sophia just stared at them.

"Hector is a very nice boy, and the only one you haven't scared off. I thought you liked him."

"He is not what I want in a man."

"Then what do you want?"

Charlotte paused and thought about it. "Haven't a clue." She finally said, giving a large grin before shoveling more stew into her mouth.

Sophia rolled her eyes. "Heaven's preserve me for having such a picky daughter."

"If I remember correctly my love, you did not make it so easy for me when we were young." Marius said, placing a hand over her's.

"I only ignored you for the first month." There was something about the way they looked at one other, that unfaltering affection and trust in another person, which made a small part of Charlotte envious. If only a little bit.

"Who knows Charlotte? Maybe you will be swept off your feet by some young dashing lord. Just like how I met your father" Sophia said with the hint of cheek in her voice. Charlotte would have thrown her head back and laughed but she had a mouthful of food. She swallowed it down and shook her head. "I'm running off the Paris to escape unwanted advances, not to find any. Not intentionally." She joked.

That at least had both her parents chuckling.

The evening came and the family made themselves ready for bed. Charlotte insisted on an early night and locked herself away in her room not long after dinner. She lay awake in her bed staring at a candle as she thought about her plan once more.

She was not going to Madam Flori when she got to Paris, far from it.

She would instead go before the Musketeers and beseech to join their ranks like her father before her.

Her eyes flicked to her sword lying across her packed bag.

The Musketeers. Men, as her father had described, whose individual skills combine made a force to be reckoned with. They fought for King and country, for the weak and oppressed. Theirs were the stories she had listen to throughout her years of training that fueled the fire in her heart.

Her parents had just laughed it off when she loudly proclaimed her wish to be one of them at the tender age of twelve, but as the years flew by the more adamant her wish became. She was no longer a child, but a woman at the ripe age of twenty, with sword skills that matched her father's and a feisty attitude.

Charlotte had not been the easiest child to raise as her mother had put it mildly. It was her temper, and landed her in trouble many times with the local village boys and sometimes the girls. How they managed to bare with her would always be a mystery but Charlotte was forever grateful for their consent support. She would miss it, the comfort of their presence, the feeling of home, even her mother's sewing lessons. But she would find a new home in Paris. She would make one for herself, exactly how she wished.

She wanted to fight, to serve her king and carry on her family's name.

The candle light faded as it slowly died. Charlotte rolled onto her back and forced herself to sleep. Patience was not one of her virtues.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers.**

**Chapter 2 is all about getting Charlotte out of the country town and on her journey. **

**Enjoy :) **

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><p>"Calm down old girl." The speckled coated horse kept stomping her front hoof as Charlotte adjusted the saddle so that it sat better. But Buttercup still whinnied and moved about restlessly. It was early morning and the frost had yet to melt when Charlotte quietly stepped out of the house. It took her longer to fix up the harness and fit her sword under the saddle so that it would not be seen and even still she was having trouble with it. "I know it's uncomfortable but it won't be for the whole trip."<p>

"Will it now?"

Charlotte whipped around. Marius was standing at the stable door. "Papa." She said a little too loudly. "I didn't know you were awake."

"I am a light sleeper my little terror."

Charlotte was surprised. He hadn't called her that for a long time.

"I knew you would be up at the crack of dawn." Her father walked over to her with a smile on his face and something long and wrapped up in his hands.

In an attempt to look normal Charlotte straightened the skirt of her woolen over dress. "I wanted to tack Buttercup up myself." She told her father. But he just cocked an eyebrow and just walked around her. "I'm sure." He lifted the bed roll tied to the back of the saddle, revealing the hilt of her sword. "You intend to mend ball gowns and doublets with this?"

She had been caught.

"Charlotte." Marius's tone was hard to pick out. It wasn't angry, nor was it disappointed. Regardless Charlotte was terrified. "Papa please I can explain, I ... I ..." But up her explanation dwindled to little more than a murmur. "I just want to try."

"To try what?"

"To become who I am." Though quiet, she voice held firm. "Gowns, silks and jewels. That is not me. It's never been me Papa and you know that. I know that I can be a Musketeer if I am just given a chance."

Marius pulled out the sword from under the saddle. He held it up between them and Charlotte's heart sank. "You are so like me in my youth. Stubborn, wilful, full of energy ... and anger. Your mother always blamed me for your ways. When I agreed to teach you swordplay, it was in the hopes that it would help you channel your anger as I did." He said. "But even before you mastered the basics, I knew you would excel." He stabbed the sword into the dirt ground.

'_Now what'_ Charlotte fisted the sides of the skirt and watched him unwrap the object in his hands. The worn brown fabric fell away and the hilt of a sword appeared. But it wasn't just any sword, it was her father's.

"If you are to become a Musketeer, it would do you some good to have the appropriate weapon."

Charlotte felt her chest swell and she looked down at the sword in his hands, holding out to her. Slowly Charlotte brought herself to take it with Marius smile reassuring her.

"The weapon of a Musketeer." She breathed softly, bringing it up to her eye line.

"The true weapon of Musketeer is here." Marius pointed to her chest, right over her heart. "You have a strong and valiant spirit Charlotte, when you set your mind on it you can accomplish anything. I couldn't have asked for a better student."

The young woman took hold of her father's hand and held it close to her chest. "And I couldn't have asked for a better father."

Marius chuckled, his eyes glimmering with pride. "Now let's put that away so that I may hug you." He ordered. With Marius' help they slid the blade into its hiding spot then Charlotte wrapped her arms tightly around her father, burying her face into his shoulder. "You will be missed my little terror." She heard him mutter into her hair.

xxxx

Sophia was waiting for them at the door, hands clasped tightly together in a manner that suggested nerves. Marius had Buttercup's reigns and led the horse after Charlotte. She noticed a long cloak hanging off her mother's arm. Sophia stepped out of the doorway and unfurled it. "It will be cold on the road." She opened up the cloak for Charlotte to slip into. It sagged over her shoulders. "Make sure when you get to Paris you find a more suitable one."

"Indeed my love indeed." Marius dug around in his pocket and pulled out a small black pouch. "Here's twenty crowns. Use it wisely."

"Put Papa this is too much." Charlotte tried to give back the money but the old musketeer only pressed it harder into her hands.

"It would give us comfort to know you will not be penniless."

Charlotte could only comply with her father' wish and nodded.

She pulled her mother into a tight embrace and allowed the woman to kiss her cheeks and mutter her goodbyes.

"Promise me you will keep out of trouble, and don't let that temper get the better of you."

"I will try Mama."

"It's in your blood." He father told her. "Fight, get into trouble, make mistakes and learn from them. Fight, love, live." He brought the three of them close together. "Never forget who you are. You are Charlotte D'Artangan, our daughter."

Saying goodbye was harder than Charlotte had hoped.

"Write when you can."

"I will."

Once she had been released from her parent's arms, she mounted Buttercup and turned her west. With a swift kick the horse began to trot, kicking up the loose earth under her hooves. They trotted down the path leading towards the village where they would have to make a right at the crossroads to the north.

It didn't take too long to make it to the crossroads, and it look as if she wasn't the only one out riding. A soft whinny pulled her attention down the road that went straight ahead towards the town. Approaching was a young man on a large Clydesdale panting heavily from all the galloping it had been made to do all the way from the Beaumount farm.

"Oh boy." Charlotte groaned and halted Buttercup. Might as well deal with this unforeseen encounter.

"Charlotte!"

"Morning Hector."

The massive horse slowed as it reached her, but Buttercup still backed away from the stranger. Hector look very perky, "So you were just going to leave like that Charlotte? No proper goodbye?"

"You knew I was going to be leaving today Hector. And I said my goodbyes to you two days ago."

"I refuse to believe you would lug me in with the rest of your half arsed farewells with the others. Charlotte. Nice touch with the sad smiles by the way." Hector grinned and held the reigns in one hand to settle the other on his hip.

Charlotte shook her head. What was she going to do with this boy? "If you can pick that you would know that my farewell was genuine." She told him.

He stirred the Clydesdale closer to bring them side by side. "What will it take to make you stay Charlotte?"

"You can not change my mind Hector. Not now."

"Really? So you're just going to sew dresses for the rest of your life?"

She licked her bottom lip, "So what if I am."

The man shook his head. "You said it yourself, I can pick your lies Charlotte. I know you too well."

"That you do." She sighed. "I often forget how long we have known eachother." Buttercup moved restlessly beneath her.

"I also know what you are going to try and do Charlotte and I must advise against it." The sides of Charlotte's lips fell. "Just hear me out. I have watched you fight enough of the lads to know you are by no means defenseless, I just ..." Hector chewed his bottom lip and looked away.

"What?"

"Just ... I've heard that there is unrest in Paris. The merchants say ..."

"I don't care about what some merchant's gossip about." Charlotte told him. "I have made my choice."

Then Hector pulled out his look. The 'I couldn't possibly do wrong and you should listen to me' look that he had perfected since they were children. It often got him out of trouble when he slacked off from his work. "I am just worried. I care about you Charlotte."

She had to give it to him, he was tenacious. "And I care about you too."

"Then why don't you become my wife?" He quickly changed to from gentle to cocksure in a second.

"Oh Hector, not that again."

"But why not?"

Charlotte turned Buttercup around, "I said no the last six times you asked Hector, no point in me changing my tune now."

"Don't I even get one last kiss goodbye?"

"Hector if you ever force a kiss on me again I swear that I will punch you in that perfect face of yours." She kicked Buttercup's sides and the mare gladly took off. She swore she could hear Hector's snort of a laugh fading away behind her.

"I'm going to miss you!"

"I know you will!"

When she was sure they were out of sight, she adjusted herself in the saddle and urged Buttercup on, "Come on. Let's see what you've got Buttercup." She whispered to the horse. Their speed picked up they were flying down the road. Charlotte's skin chilled and she felt her long braid bouncing on the back of the cloak. But she only urged Buttercup on, letting the first moments of utter freedom sink in.

She was on her way. At last.

They rode for what felt like hours and hours until they came to a bridge by a small stream ran eastward under it. Charlotte brought Buttercup off the road and dismounted. With a quick glance up at the sun she saw it was well past midday and the horse was in need to a rest and deserved an hour's respite. Charlotte would use this time to eat and to change. Her dress was starting to chaff her arms and the pants she had been secretly wearing underneath made it extra hot.

She hobbled Buttercup close to the bank so that she could drink and nibble the grass comfortably and unstrapped her bag and sword from the saddle. There was no one in sight for miles but Charlotte still took the precaution to disrobing under the bridge.

"What say you Buttercup?" She called out to the horse as she loosened the ribbon on her bodice, "Shall we press on to an inn?"

The horse seemed indifferent and continued to drink up.

"Or perhaps we could camp out here? Under the night sky?"

Buttercup snorted.

"Oh fine then. The inn it will be." Charlotte was free of the bodice and the chemise and threw the billowing white shirt on, which swallowed her up and covered up her womanly shape. The trousers were a little more challenging as they were twice her size and were wrapped around her waist so tucking the shirt in was harder to do. "We should come by Saint-Astier by night fall."

When she stepped out from under the bridge, Buttercup looked up and stared at her. "Don't give me that look. You are not my mother." Charlotte rolled up her dress and shoved in into the bottom of her bag. "Won't be needing those in a hurry."

Next came the buckling of her belt, which would hold the trousers together. The worn leather went around her twice before she settled the buckle against her left hip and so that she could hook the scabbard onto it. To do so she had to draw the sword out. She carefully laid it out on the grass and stared at it as she fixed the scabbard to her side.

It was a thing of beauty, with its silver handle catching in the light it was crafted to fit the hand with ease and perfectly balanced. To think it was her's now seemed impossible, it would take a lot of getting used to.

Charlotte felt the last button click together and sat back on the grass.

It was such a clear day out and it would have been a shame to waste it all on riding. She pulled out the cheese bread that her mother had wrapped up for her, but notice something attached to the fabric. A letter.

Charlotte placed the food across her lap and held the piece of paper gingerly. This was the letter of introduction she was to present to Madame Flori. She traced over her mother's elegant script, thinking about how she had lied. Should she keep it? If her plans to become a musketeer became soured there was the option her mother had hoped for her. But if she got rid of it, she would have fewer options than to return home defeated.

Her pride would never call for that.

As she had already stressed to Hector she had made her choice. She sucked in a breath and ripped the envelope in two, then again, and again. The result was a handful of off white pieces that she closed her fingers around.

Charlotte opened her hand and the pieces floated away on the breeze.

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><p><strong>Please review all feedback is welcomed.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers.**

**So now we have the infamous inn scene and the first encounter with Rochefort. Let the chaos begin.**

**Please leave a review and enjoy.**

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><p>With less than a day left until they would see Paris, Charlotte spotted a small travel post ahead of her on the road and decided to make a stop for the night. Her stomach ached for a decent meal after a disaster the day before with an inn. It looked quiet as she rode across the bridge into the yard with a handful workers unloading pots from a cart and an auspicious bunch seated around a table, wine and food scattered about the tabletop.<p>

Charlotte led Buttercup to the stable door, which meant getting close to the group. From under her hat she observed them, dressed in matching uniforms of red and black shoving the chicken into the mouths without hesitation.

_'Are they a private guard for someone?'_ Charlotte thought to herself. There was one man at the table not in uniform who had his back to her. He calmly drank his tankard and let the others eat and talk amongst themselves. Perhaps he was a lord. His charcoal coloured cloak showed off his wealth with the amount of detailed embroidery it had.

Regardless it wasn't any of Charlotte's business and she went about getting Buttercup into a stall and a room for herself. She dismounted quickly and reached for her purse.

"In the name of God what is that?"

Charlotte paused when she heard a raspy voice from behind, unsure if it was addressed at her.

"And the beast he's riding isn't much either."

It was addressed at her, and her horse. Charlotte may have clasped the purse a little too tightly. _'Relax Charlotte. Just ... ignore them. You promised mother.'_ She took a deep breath and called for a stable hand.

"Sir. Please see to it my horse is feed and watered." She instructed with a hint of forced cheer.  
>The man gave her an odd smile as she handed him the reigns and bobbed his head up and down. "Of course ..." He wordlessly mouthed the end of his sentence before just giving up and leading Buttercup away. Since doing away with her dress she had on a thick jacket with her cloak hanging off a shoulder and her braid tucked under her father's old hat. Poor soul must have been unsure as to whether to say 'sir' or 'ma'am'.<p>

"Oh. It's a horse? My friends here thought it was a cow."

Charlotte's head snapped around as the group burst into a fit of sniggers. One guard took one look at her and quickly sobered up, leaning close to the man with charcoal cloak and quickly whispered something to him, keeping an eye on Charlotte the whole time. The man slight turned his head, showing a fraction of his profile.

Her feet moved of their own accord and Charlotte found herself before the table. By now the rest of the guards had taken notice of her and lent back in their chairs to watch. But the leader just kept his head down, hidden under the brim of his hat. Under his clock he wore a rich shade of burgundy all the way to his oily black shoes. Around his waist he had a sword, a dagger and two large pistols.

"Excuse me." She began politely. The leader finally looked up at her.

Her father always said that you can predict the nature of a man by his face, and if there was any truth to that statement then this man had a harsh, unforgiving nature. For starters he had only one eye, the colour of a storm. Over the other one he wore a brown leather patch with a golden symbol painted on it and Charlotte could spot tiny scars poking out of the sides, evidence of how he lost it. The rest of his face was drawn with lines and other small scars subtly etched into the weathered skin. In true gentlemen fashion he kept his ash brown moustache trimmed and his hair was pulled back into a low ponytail.

But as soon as he saw her, something changed. The amusement was gone and his face grew stiff and, in Charlotte's opinion, loathing.

Five seconds and someone already hated her, that was a new record.

Charlotte found her voice again as his single glare began to pierce through her very skin. "I understand if you fine gentlemen are just simply having a laugh or two, but Buttercup there," She flimsily indicated to the speckled mare, "Well she's a sensitive soul."

The man sniffed and returned to his food. "If you're thinking that I am to apologise, you should be aware that I don't do so for county side yokels or their wenches. Even if they wear swords and pretend to be important."

Charlotte felt the blood in her cheeks and neck grow hot. "And what if I am a noble sir? Surely you would hope to offend one so easily?" She said, enunciating her words properly. But he wasn't fool. He looked her up and down, from hat to shoe buckle. He lingered on the hilt of her father's sword, where her hand sat tensely.

"But you are not noble blood. I know farmers ilk and you," He made a noise like a scoff and a grunt, "I can still smell the cow dung on you."

Suddenly Charlotte was seeing red.

"You know I was just going to ask for an apology for the slights at myself." She said, "But I think I will have you apologize to my horse instead."

One could feel the air about the table grow uncomfortable as the guards sat silently while the woman in trousers demanded their master apologize to an animal, and their master just sat there and let her talk such nonsense.

"And If I don't?"

Charlotte's thumb hooked under the twisted metalwork of her hilt and pulled the sword an inch out from the scabbard. "Then I shall make you."

The guard to the man's left of course scoffed in disbelief came from was joined by his fellow guards. But the man just glared at Charlotte, the colour of his eye shifted from a hazy storm to steel grey.

It made Charlotte take a step back to lessen the intensity of his glare.

He stood, slowly, purposely dragging himself upright. He was a good foot taller than her, a foot and a half with the large feather in the side of his hat, but it did nothing to deter Charlotte.

She turned her back and pulled on the cord of her cloak. The garment started to slip off her shoulder but was caught on her ready arm as she stepped out into the open yard. This would be the right amount of room to fight.

There was the scrapping of chairs and the faint clinking behind and Charlotte tossed her cloak next to the road. But as she drew her sword and turned back she was sent backwards onto the dirt with pain searing up her arm, a sharp cry escaped her and she clamped her teeth together to stifle another as she braced her fall. She down at her arm, her braid tumbling over her should as her hat fell off, and saw the side of her jacket cut open and a dark patch forming around it.

_'What the bloody hell!?' _

She went to stand but two pairs of boots knocked her back and pinned her wrists to the ground. Her sword had fallen a few feet away and was out of reach, even with all the struggling she put up to free herself. The guards just kept the feet firmly on her wrist, not looking at her.

"You shot me!" She yelled.

"Most observant of you." The man was standing over her inspecting his pistol, smoke rising from it and the smell of burnt powder filled the air. "But the really question is," He looked away from his pistol and down at the pinned woman, "Why aren't you dead?"

Charlotte glared up at him with daggers in her eyes, "Cocky basAaah!"

The man pressed his tailored boot on her injured arm, causing more blood to pool out.

"Flesh wound." He looked disappointed and held up his pistol again. "Sight must be off. Who takes care of my weapons?"

"Ah, Captain Rochefort I ..." The younger of the guards came forward only to have an elbow to the nose.

No one came to help Charlotte despite all the commotion the group was causing. She could hear them but they stayed safely away from the conflict.

Charlotte's breaths came in short hisses as she watched the captain holster his pistol. He was going to pay for this, that is if she lived through this altercation. Rochefort indicated to her sword and a guard retrieved it. "I will not dirty my blade with peasant blood." He muttered. "So then, girl." Quicker than lightening the tip of her sword was at her throat, "Think you're so clever with a blade now?"

"Doesn't matter when my opponent cheats." She snapped.

He used the sword to make her look at him, the metal pressing into the tender skin. One thrust and Charlotte would bleed out in seconds and the last thing she would see in her life would this pig and his hate filled glare.

"Consider this your last lesson."

"No."

Charlotte thanked every saint and then some. Straining her eyes she looked behind her. A beautiful white carriage with gold finishings had pulled up next to the scuffle and leaning out of the window was a fine lady. With peach skin, faint carmine painted lips and cheeks and perfect fiery curls, even upside down Charlotte could admire her beauty. She may have very well been an angel if it was for her half smile. It seemed too malicious.

"Really Rochefort?" The lady folded her hands under her chin and battered her lashes, "You would point a sword at a woman? I thought you had better manners."

The steel at Charlotte's throat disappeared. "As you wish, Milady." Rochefort complied, but he looked as though he still wanted to jam the sword into Charlotte's head.

"And besides, would be a shame to waste such pretty eyes."

"My thanks." Charlotte coughed out when she released the breath she had been holding.

The lady's smile broadened and she produced a handkerchief, only to toss it towards Charlotte.  
>"Rochefort, come." The lady pulled herself back into the carriage and adjusted a lacy hood over her head. "We're expected in Paris."<p>

The carriage jolted and slowly pulled away. The two guards pinning Charlotte down finally released her and backed away from her as she bolted upright, the bullet graze pulsing the pain throughout the rest of her. Rochefort gave her one last look of disgust before tossing then sword to the wayside. He and his subordinates sauntered back to the inn.

Only then did a porter come to her aid. "Are you alright Miss?"

"Fine." Charlotte didn't care for the lad and his concern. She just glared at the back of Rochefort's head, thinking up obscene names for him.

"Miss, your arm." The porter said.

"It's nothing. I'll live." Charlotte picked up the handkerchief and pressed it to the wound. There was something satisfying about staining the pristine piece of linen. That woman was not as she seemed, and the way she stopped Rochefort was like she was merely stopping a game she had grown bored with.

And the captain ...

The bastard hated her the moment he laid eyes on her, but why? She had never met him before, and if she had she would have remember someone so sullen.

Once he and his guards had mounted and gone off after the carriage, a few more workers appeared to assist her, but once they saw the scary look on her face they kept their distance. "Who were they?" She asked the porter. He glanced at the parting group nervously.

"Men whom you shouldn't cross so lightly. You are lucky still have your hands." And that was all he said on the matter.

Charlotte shook her head and retrieved her sword.

_'Rochefort.'_ She would commit that name to memory.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own the Three Musketeers.

Loving the positive responses to this so far and it seems that a few of you want a potential pairing of Charlotte and Aramis. Well I was tossing up between him and maybe the Duke, so lets see how the plot progresses.

Read, review and enjoy :)

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><p>Paris.<p>

The heart of France in regards to fashion, art and nobility.

Charlotte let her mouth hang just a little as she crossed into the city, staring at Notre Dame and the royal palace in the distance. The city was buzzing with life, from the homeliest shop clerk to the most lavishly decorated aristocrat. The streets were lined with shops and market stands that drew crowds to their wares but blocked up the road. Charlotte had to be careful where she rode. She passed a local street performance where a fire breather dazzled young families. The sight of the dancing flames brought back a vague memory of a show like it back in Gascony, during a festival.

Charlotte stirred Buttercup down a quieter street to a local trough with two small horses already tied to the wooden rail. This would be a good place to leave Buttercup while she looked for a place for the night. She dismounted quickly and set about tying the rope from the post to the horse's harness. A sharp twinge from her left arm made her flinch and pause her work.

At the moment all that was protecting the nasty scratch was the white handkerchief hastily tied around her arm. The mistress of the inn had offered her proper bandages but in her silent rage Charlotte flat out refused any help.

Her pride was more wounded than her arm thanks to that captain.

Charlotte promised herself that if she would ever meet him again she would put her sword through his good eye. A gentle nudge from Buttercup brought her back to the present and she finished off the knot, making it extra tight. Charlotte gave a heavy sigh and took a step away from the animal.

In the distance the bells of Notre Dame rang out their hourly psalm and Charlotte didn't know why but she turned suddenly. She just had a feeling, similar to when just barely hear your name being called in the distance. Ridiculous, but the only way to describe it.

There was nothing of interest down the street, just a few butchers, a lot of women shopping and a man walking away in the distance. There was something familiar about his walk, and his cloak.

When the man turned Charlotte saw the eye patch and her temper flared.

It was him, the bastard who shot her.

The original plan of finding an inn was thrown to the waste side and Charlotte ran after him with the full intent of having her duel. The young woman crashing into random citizens and caught her cloak kept catching on carts in her pursuit.

_'Why oh why didn't I take this blasted thing off?' _She internally berated, all the while Rochefort got further and further away from her. This only made her angrier and less inclined to quickly apologise to those she crashed into. "Sorry." She spat out as she knock into and man standing in the middle of the street with a tanked. She felt the liquid spill onto her arm and no doubt all over the man. Unlike those before, this one caught Charlotte and pulled her up to face him.

"What do you think you're doing boy?"

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and saw Rochefort turning a corner. He was getting away. "Please sir, I'm after a man who insulted me and my horse then tried to kill me." Charlotte quickly explained, not bothering with the fact she had been called a boy. She tried to pull free but he had around her collar held firm.

"That's not good enough." The man said flatly. "You spilt my drink."

Charlotte could not believe her luck. She dug her hand into a pocket with a groan and pulled out the first thing that she could. But the man looked less than impressed when she presented her compensation.

"Ten sou?"

"I'm in a hurry."

"Do you know who you're talking to boy?"

"The town drunk from the smell of you." Though he certainly look it. His clothes looked tailored and only slightly dishevelled but his slight slur and unfocused eye gave it away.

"Now that my boy is fighting words." He said with a slight snarl in his voice. Thrice he had called a boy. Charlotte had had enough and pulled out of his grip. "What are you saying then?" She hissed at him, fixing her shirt and cloak. She was already in a bad mood, now this gentleman was adding fuel to the fire.

"Blind and deaf."

_'You're one to talk.'  
><em>

"Fortunately I am somewhat of a doctor." What was this now? He was challenging her? The idea was tempting.

"Well perhaps the good doctor could fit me in sometime." She said mockingly.

The man paused, pieces of his brown hair catching on his eyelashes when he blinked, then said, "Twelve o'clock. Coopers Yard. St Germine."

"I'll be there." Charlotte accepted and took off down the street.

_'So much for trying to stay out of trouble.'  
><em>

When she turned down the street Rochefort did minutes ago, there was no sign of him. He may have been at the end of the street by then and Charlotte thought to make up for lost time by cutting through shops. One such shop was a tailor's stand with jackets and cloaks lining the sides. Charlotte barrelled through them blindly and when she emerged on the other side of the rack she saw two people in her path, a lady passing a red purse a rather tall gentleman. It would have been easy for Charlotte to get around them, but her cloak tripped up her foot and she broke the couple apart with her fall.

"Watch where you're going!" The large man growled while his lady friend shrilled and waved her fan.

"I am_ so_ sorry." Sarcasm dripped from every word as Charlotte fixed her askew hat and got back up. Within the folds of her cloak she found the red purse. "Here." She handed it back to the man.

"This is not my purse." He turned his nose up and lent on his cane.

"I saw the lady hand it to you, I am not blind." Charlotte was so frustrated that she wanted to throw the purse at him and be done with it, but the large man insisted on making a scene. "Are you suggesting that I'd take money from this woman? That I can pay for my own wardrobe!?" Somehow the voice didn't match the body. He looked like he could snap an arm in two yet spoke like some foppish regent throwing a tantrum.

Charlotte glanced over at the lady in the vein hope that she would calm her companion down, but the voluptuous brunette hide a coy smile behind her fan and said nothing as the man continued to rant.

"Do you know who I am?!"

Charlotte rolled her eyes. And she thought the men in Gascony were stubborn arses. "Do you know who I am?" She asked back.

"No."

"Then I guess where even."

Something snapped an the large man got her by the scruff of her collar, pulling her close enough to see the tiny pearl hanging from the gold loop through his left ear. "You are very lucky," Charlotte cocked an eyebrow. "If you were a man I would slaughter you on the spot, but this is a brand new jacket."

Charlotte did the only logical thing that would get her out of this mess. She kicked him in the left shin. Distracted by the pain the man loosened his hold which allowed her to pull away.

She tossed the coin purse to the lady and took off again

Thanks to that minor disruption, she had lost sight of Rochefort completely. She ran to the end of street before finally stopping to catch her breath. "Where are you, you son of a ..." She muttered under her ragged breath, but there was no sign of him. Her blood boiled and she felt her explosive temper rising up, choking her senses.

She had to calm down before she had an outburst.

One deep breath later she had turned back the way she came, head down and hat pulled across her eyes. She may not have found the man she wanted, but she did end up with a duel with which to vent all her anger on. A pleasing thought.

She had only been away from her horse fifteen minutes, so nothing should have happened to Buttercup. But just when Charlotte thought her run of bad luck was at an end she spotted yet another man standing by Buttercup and lifting up the saddle. At first glance it looked as though he was pinching something but all the stranger in black did was put a slip of paper under it. Charlotte jogged over but the man was already on his way by the time she got there. She yanked out the paper and read it quickly.

"Five francs, what? Hey!"

The man stopped and turned back as she walked up to him. He looked rather indifferent to her, suggesting he may have been an official of sorts and dealt with complaints before. "What is this?" She held up the paper as it creased under her tense fingers.

The amount of black the man wore was alarming, to the point where the shade of his hair matched that of his clothes. The only thing that held colour was the gold cross around his neck. "It's a citation." He said. When she didn't respond he rather viciously added, "It's a ticket."

"I know what a citation is." Charlotte snapped, "What is it _for_?"

"Failure to remove animal bowel movements from a public area."

They both looked back at Buttercup then back at eachother.

"You could have just said she took a dump."

"I could have. But I didn't." The man gave her a patronising smile.

A horrible noise like a snarl escaped Charlotte's clenched teeth. "God, what did I do to earn your hate today?" She said to the heavens.

"Perhaps he is offering you a test of character?" That less than helpful suggestion came from the official.

Charlotte scrunched up her nose up at him, "If I wanted to speak of God and character I would consult a priest thank you."

The man said nothing and just stared at her with deep brown eyes. Charlotte wondered just how she offended this chap then looked down at the cross sitting on his breast.

But she glanced back up she was met with a softer expression, making the man less grim faced. "A man does not need to be bound to the church to speak of God. One can impart heavenly wisdom to his fellow man."

That caught Charlotte off guard.

"The office of Public Affairs is two streets from here, across from the chapel. Do yourself a favour and pay it. The consequences for not doing so will only result in a heftier fine."

"Is this a warning or advise?"

"That depends how you wish to see it Miss. Good day."

And with that he left her there to gawk at the empty space he left behind, still trying to fathom what had just happened. The man had simultaneously dealt her more ill luck and her first lot of kindness since arriving in Paris.

She rubbed her hand across her face. Either way, she had a terrible first morning.

It took a few minutes before Charlotte walked back to the speckled mare still calmly chewing on some soggy hay. She huffed and lent against Buttercup as the frustration within her subsided a little. That small bit of kindness helped ease the storm.

Buttercup shifted and knocked Charlotte away.

"I hope you realise how much I go through defending your honour you silly old horse." Charlotte said to her as she untied the reins. Buttercup just continued chewing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers.**

**Loving the support with this so far my lovely readers. Enjoy Chapter 5. **

* * *

><p>Coppers Yard was a larger place than Charlotte had anticipated and not that easy to find either. The directions given to her sent her in the wrong direction at first so Charlotte assumed that it was a relatively small place. However upon finding it, that assumption was proven wrong.<p>

There were several small working stations of baskets, woodworks and the like of it were position outside the many apartments that made up the square. Much of it was undergoing reconstruction as well. This would be an interesting place for a duel. Charlotte tied Buttercup to the outside of a woodcutters shed after a quick word with two a workmen on his break. It was only half eleven so she had plenty of time to prepare. She took off her cloak and hat since they had already proven they would get in the way and draped them over Buttercup's saddle.

The pulsing sensation in her head was driving her mad and made her dizzy. One of the unfortunate side effects when she got angry, but it was not as powerful as it could have been. She undid her braid and shook her now messy hair so that it fell across her shoulders.

That felt much better.

A pair of old women carrying half made baskets stopped and stared at her pulling back her hair into a high pony tail. They muttered to one another quietly until noticed Charlotte glancing at them. One of them shook her head at her before the pair carried on. No doubt Charlotte would be relieving a lot more of that should she continue looking the way she did.

She unsheathed her blade and closed her eyes.

She needed to focus her mind and sooth any frustration still lingering. Running through basic stances always helped. She took first position, counting the motions in her head, then moved her right arm into second.

_'Slowly.'_

She breathed in time with her counting. Her feet moved softly across the cobbles, like steps in a dance.

"What are you up to there lass?" Asked the old workman she had been talking to before. Charlotte didn't look up from her routine, "Practicing." She answered him bluntly.

"Practicing? What are you getting ready for a fight?"

"Yes I am." Her arm began hurting again as the coarse fabric of her jacket cut into the wound.

Charlotte breathed through the pain and pressed on till the end of the set.

The blade sliced through the air, creating a beautiful clean sound at she wiped it round her body. Charlotte's father had been right, this was the perfect weapon for a Musketeer.

"Impressive." The old man said as she finished. "Though I don't see why a young lady such as yourself would be waving a sword about. Is it to keep the boys away?"

Charlotte rolled her shoulders back. "More or less." She tossed the sword up into the air. The man started to make a noise of protest but closed his mouth when she caught it effortlessly by the handle. "Besides, I am quite good at it." She gave him a little smirk and the man chuckled. "You must be from out of town for I have never seen a lady of Paris behave in such a manner."

"True." Charlotte sheathed her sword and walked towards the wood block he was sitting on. "Though I am originally Paris born I am country grown."

"Where?"

"Gascony."

"Here." He reached into a leather bag and pulled out a fresh green apple. He tossed it to her, "From one Gascon to another. Jacque is the name."

"Many thanks. Charlotte." After the first bite, Charlotte realised just how hungry she was and she devoured the fruit. "So you're from Gascony too."

"Indeed," Jacque reached down again and pulled out a small bottle from the bag. "Left over forty years ago under the delusion I'd find fame and fortune here in Paris."

"And what did you find?"

"Hammers and chisels." He took a swig from the bottle. "But it is a good life, stable. More importantly it provides for my family."

Charlotte nodded.

"And yourself? What brings a young sword brandishing lady to Paris?"

"Ambition."

Somewhere in the distance, the chimes of midday began to ring out. Charlotte looked around for signs of her challenger. Jacque got to his feet and picked up his hammer and bag. "You expecting someone?"

"Yes." As the last chime died out Charlotte noticed a figure passing under an archway into the yard,

"Speak of the devil."

The drunk looked much more dignified with his feathered hat and a black cloak off his shoulder. His jacket was fixed and he walked proudly and the tell tale sign of a sword at his hip showed under the cloak. By all rights he looked rather dashing. Charlotte felt a tug at her elbow and she looked over her shoulder at Jacque, who looked rather worried. "Do not tell me that you plan to fight him?" He whispered.

"Yes I do."

Jacque stared at her like she proclaimed herself the Queen. "Do you even know who he is?"

Charlotte glanced back at her opponent. "No, unfortunately I wasn't in a position to catch his name."

"Ambition indeed." Jacque patted her back, "God be with you."

Somehow that only made Charlotte confused, but the old workman had gone off back to his work before she could question him further.

"So, you've finally shown up." She called to the drunk. He followed her voice and locked eyes with her, confusion settling on his face. The process to which he came the realisation was all too clear in his bright eyes.

"What? Sobriety too harsh to deal with?"

"I remembered making arrangements to fight a boy. Or has some strange miracle occurred and you have been transformed by the will of God." He asked, doffing his hat.

"Last I check I was always a woman. I never said I was a boy."

"You certainly act the part well."

"On the contrary, I can be the most gracious a lady as any woman could, when I'm not provoked." Charlotte drew her sword, while her opponent didn't.

"You seriously believe I intend to fight you?"

"May I remind you sir that _you_ challenged _me_. Or was it the drink perhaps? Either way I am expecting a fight," She twirled her sword, "And I intend to have it. You already cost me one this morning."  
>The way the man looked at her in that moment was unnerving. He seemed to be looking for something in the way she stood before him, hand at her jutted hip and head cocked to the side.<p>

"What?" She questioned. "Something I said?"

"No." The man blinked softly, "The way you ... You just reminded me of an acquaintance."

"Let me guess, for my stubbornness and attitude no doubt."

"Partly." The man lifted a hand and he unfastened the cloak. The garment was pulled away and tossed onto a barrel along with his hat. Charlotte's eyes were drawn to his sword. The hilt was remarkably similar to her own. The design was slimmer on his but the metal work was defiantly the same. The same maker perhaps?

"Ah. My seconds." Charlotte snapped her head up to see two more men joining them. "Though given the opposition I doubt they'll be needed."

Charlotte threw a scathing glance at the man then glared at the newcomers.

She could not believe it.

The seconds were the same two gentlemen she had crossed paths with that morning. The large bald man was still wearing his new bronze jacket, completed with dark gold embellished buttons and a twirl in his moustache. While his companion had dressed in a similar fashion to the drunk, still in all black.

"_This_ is the rascal you spoke of?" The bald man questioned, his expression was amusing Charlotte thought she would laugh. Instead she rested the blade against her shoulder lazily.

"And a pleasure to see you two again." She glanced between the two. "As much as I enjoyed our meetings I was rather hoping I wouldn't have to see your faces anytime soon."

"You've met?" The drunk questioned.

"Briefly" The man in black tilted his head towards her, but the bald man just grunted his answer. "She kicked me in the shin."

"You deserved it." Charlotte said under her breath, staring up into the sky innocently.

The giant rolled his eyes. "Come now Athos you can not be seriously fighting this ... waif of a girl?"

"Athos?" Charlotte turned back to her opponent, staring at him in a whole new light, "The Musketeer?"

He slowly nodded, seemingly ashamed to admit it. Slowly the pieces began slot together and the truth became clear. "So then you two," Charlotte lifted a finger off the sword hilt to point at the men, "Must be Porthos ... and Aramis. The Three Musketeers."

"So you've heard of us?" Athos asked.

"I have, from my father. A Musketeer himself." Charlotte said proudly

Porthos crossed his arms over his broad frame, "And you think that means you are entitled to challenge other Musketeers willy nilly?"

"No. Although I did come to Paris to be one of you."

As expected, he laughed at the idea. Charlotte did not let it get her, even if his laughter was annoyingly jolly.

"Even if you could become one Miss, I'm afraid you're a little late." Aramis, the one in all black, rested a leg up on the barrel with the discarded cloak and hat. He practically spat the last of his sentence out like a foul fig.

"Why? What happened?" Charlotte asked.

"Oh bad mission. Budget cuts. Cardinal. Progress. Take your pick." Athos drawled out. "I take it you haven't been in Paris long."

"Arrived this morning." She said curtly, trying to mask her mounting disappointment.

"You have been busy."

"Well then. Welcome to Paris." Aramis said, giving her yet another patronising smile. How Charlotte wished she could wipe it off is face.

"Are we done here? It's lunch time and I'm starving." Porthos groaned.

"No." Charlotte snapped. She would not let this set her back, she had a goal and she would stick to it. "I am yet to have my duel." With a quick flick she bounced the blade off her shoulder and had it pointed at Athos.

Porthos laughed again, "We are not going to indulge you in your little games young miss."

"I'm not aiming to play games. I happen to be very good at this."

He raised an eyebrow, "Not that humble are you?"

Charlotte shrugged. "I merely speak the truth. Besides, if I can't not become a Musketeer I may as well fight one ... or three."

"Enough." Arthos silence to two of them. He had a hand on his own hilt and stared at her again with that perplexing look on his face. "Do you have a name?"

Charlotte lowered her sword an inch and contemplated whether to answer or not. "Everyone has a name, several in fact."

"We don't need full titles, just pick one."

So she did. "D'Artangan."

"D'Artangan." The way Athos said it made it sound very poetic and somewhat sad. "Very well. Since you seem to vexingly intent on a duel, I will grant you that much." He drew his sword at last.  
>Charlotte's blood tingled with anticipation and she took her stance. Athos effortlessly moved his sword through the positions, which Charlotte mirrored. She offered him the first move, placing her left hand flat across the small of her back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the other two Musketeers watching her carefully. Judging by their face they appeared surprised by her knowledge of proper duel etiquette, maybe even impressed.<p>

Athos made his move and crossed blades with her's.

_'So that's how he'll start.'_ Charlotte prepared to have him try and knock the sword aside.

"Halt."

Or not.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers.**

**Loving all the support behind this. Keep the feed back coming and enjoy the first fight scene. **

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><p><em>'So that's how he'll start.'<em> Charlotte prepared to have him try and knock the sword aside.

"Halt."

Or not.

She turned her head towards to source of the noise and found herself staring at a blonde haired man in a black and red uniform. It looked just like the uniform those so called guards at the inn were wearing, only this man had the luxury of having gold embroidery lining the red cross on his chest and the edge of his short cloak.

Athos gave a tired groan and stepped away from Charlotte. "Jussac." He sheathed his sword.

Charlotte took a deep breath in and out. How many times can something go wrong in one day? She stuck the point of her sword into the gap in cobbles as this Jussac fellow slowly walking closer to them, with a large smirk on his face "Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen. Duelling in defiance of the edicts?"

Athos cocked his head to the side, "Got tired of rolling peddlers for spare change?"

As they traded barbs, the yard began to fill with guards that circled around Charlotte and the Musketeers. They were blocking off all possible exits and scaring the common folk into the safety of the indoors. Charlotte guessed there must have been at least twenty of them.

"Now," Jussac crossed his hands before him, "Surrender your weapons and come quietly. This is, if you would rather resist." It was more of a dare than a command.

"New plan." Porthos said. "Forget the girl, kick their arses, then go get some lunch. I could do with some excursive."

Perhaps they may live up to his statues as a master swordsmen. But twenty more men filled the yard.

"You were saying?" Jussac asked lazily. Now they were surrounded by forty armed guards.

"On the other hand, discretion is the better part of valour." Porthos backed tracked from his previous plan.

Charlotte held a hand to the side questioningly, "You're the Musketeers."

"Wrong." Arthos said deadpan. "We were the Musketeers. Now we're just ... us."

Charlotte wanted to shake her head. So this is what the legendary Three Musketeers amounted to. A sullen drunk, a stylish giant and a godly official.

Sounded like the beginning of a bad joke.

Just when it couldn't get more difficult, a procession of armoured guards in perfect step with each other entered the yard. Everyone turned to watch the new arrivals. They too wore black and red like the other guards, even on the tips of their spears a red cross flew proudly.

A cross.

_'Could these be Cardinal Guards?'_ Charlotte mused. Even in Gascony they were notorious, and not for the best of reasons. Bringing up the rear was a single horsemen and Charlotte's blood hissed and boiled.

"Rochefort." Somewhere behind her she heard Athos say his name with as much disdain as she felt towards the man, looking arrogant atop his black steed as he was when he had her own sword at her neck. He scanned the situation until he caught sight of Charlotte. The distance between them was vast, but Charlotte still saw his eye narrow.

Her hand twisted tightly around her sword.

Jussac and six of the guards stepped between.

"Young miss." He said to her, putting on a false smile. "Your sword if you please." His hand was out ready to take it regardless. Charlotte blinked and glared at the blonde git. "Someone could get hurt."

That was it for Charlotte.

She ducked her head, 'trying' to hide a shy smile. She glanced up at Jussac, who started to chuckle at her coyness and moved his hand closer to sword hilt. Just as his hand touched her's, she snapped into action. A knee to the stomach and an elbow in the lower back later Jussac was on the cobbles completely incapacitated, while Charlotte engaged all six of the guards behind him, who were caught off guard. Charlotte easily parried their weak lunges and sent either their swords or themselves flying to the ground, while they couldn't hope to land a blow on her. Being a woman meant a smaller frame, weaker but it was lighter and quicker to move about the men. With each blow the anger that had been building up since that morning slowly flooded out of her, through her foot work, her sword arm, even through breaths when she could catch one in between all the blocking.

Around her there were cheers from the balconies as the people came out of hiding to witness what was going on, fuelling her ego enough to amp up a more dramatic flair to the fight, starting with a flip over her current opponent to strike at the man waiting behind him, then knocked her 'springboard' into an oncoming guard to her right. They were making it too easy for her and she performed a cartwheel, hooking a foot on a guard's neck which brought him face first into the ground. She had always wanted to try that. The fighting moved to the centre of the yard and Charlotte soon found herself slowly being surrounded by the rest of the guards.

_'Damn it.'_ She may have bitten off more than she could chew as she began to struggle with keeping an eye on the many blades around her.

A sharp clang next to her ear made her turned her head. A sliver handle obstructed her view, followed by an arm. Someone's back was against her's and she could sense another to her right.

It couldn't be.

A quick glance either side a Charlotte confirmed it. The Musketeers had joined the fray, Athos to her left and Aramis to her right. So that put Porthos behind her. A comforting notion to have a giant at her back now that they were caught on all sides.

"So much for discretion." Charlotte said in between gulps of breaths. Porthos snorted. "Why bother? Couldn't let you have all the fun now."

"Besides what sort of gentlemen would we be not come to the aid of a lady." Aramis chimed in.

Charlotte grounded her teeth to ease her wounded pride, "I _don't_ need help. I have everything under control."

"Obviously. We are completely surrounded."

"_You_ are so by choice you ..."

"If you two are done." Arthos cut Charlotte off from answering back. Something had changed. Even though she couldn't see it, she heard it in his voice. It was firm, in command. "Let's even the odds."

Charlotte couldn't dispute that.

As one the four of them lunged and broke the wall of guards. Through the fray Charlotte caught sight of Rochefort, still seated on the safety of his horse watching the brawl with little interest. His lips moved slightly as he gave an order Charlotte could not hear and she duck her head as a guard aimed for her, instead killing one of his own. After she dispatched him she looked back of Rochefort. He was leaving with his parade of armoured guards.

Charlotte thought she heard herself growl. _'Oh no you don't.'_ She tried to break through to get to him, but felt herself being pushed further back. In between the crossing blades, she saw the Three Musketeers fighting in their own unique forms. Aramis, like her, utilised light footwork to keep a step ahead and also had a slim dagger in his other hand to stave off assaults. Porthos did even need to draw a blade and clobbered his opponents with his fine cane. And as for Athos ... well, he used no fancy swordplay or godly strength. His strokes were swift, precise and deadly. He didn't bother with showing off or being the most vicious, it was all about precision with Athos.

"Watch out!"

Charlotte turned sharply to find Jussac charging at her with a snarl. He was easy to deflect, but any later and she may have had a sword in her gut. She knocked the man to the ground then searched for the owner of the voice. Standing by a tree there was a young girl, clutching a basket of herbs and apples tightly as she watched on. There was a look of relief about her sweet face and pink lips were parted by a soft sigh. She must have been the one.

"Thanks," Charlotte nodded to her.

The girl's relief quickly drop and she was shaking her head at her, "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Charlotte glanced around, "I'm standing, unharmed, with my opponents on the ground. If I was trying to do something like that it would be the other way around."

The girl was far from impressed. "Are you always this cocky?"

"I prefer the term confident. Seems a little more lady like."

"You hardly seem like the type who would care for lady like things."

"True."

Jussac made another attempt at her, "Damn you wench!"

"Do you mind?" Charlotte parried and easily took the captain's sword. She tripped him up for good measure. "Didn't your mother teach you to never interrupt a woman's conversation?"

A groan from Jussac was his answer.

Charlotte turned back to the girl smugly. "The name is Charlotte D'Artangan by the way."

Her exterior crack a little and there was traces of a smile there. "Constance."

"Pleasure."

"You won't get far here with just a sword you know." Constance told her.

Charlotte ducked and caught a young guards thrust with the hilt of Jussac's sword, twisting hard and flipping the guard over her shoulder. "How do you mean?"

The girl raised an eyebrow, like Charlotte had missed the most obvious thing. "This is Paris. The game of wits earns more merit than swordplay, and meaning no disrespect but it would appear that you are but an ammeter player."

"So you are an expert?"

"Perhaps, compared to you."

Charlotte liked this girl. She was quite to the point, brutally honest and had a sense of wit and humor.

Remembering that she was in the middle of a fight, she looked about for anymore attackers. But all that was left was a stumbling Jussac and a dozen guards scattered about the ground. "Well then." Charlotte called out to him, happy he stumbled upright at the sound of her voice. "Care for a little more?" She tossed his sword back to him.

Jussac just held his sword out. Charlotte was sure he had a slight shudder and was going red in the face with humiliation. With all the grace and dignity of a toddler throwing a tantrum the captain broke his sword on his knee and tossed it back towards Charlotte, rendering her the better swordsman. She smirked had the two halves skidded across the cobbles and Jussac stomped, or more accurately limped away.

Constance shifted her basket so that she could pat her hands together to applaud Charlotte, but it was in a mocking manner. She lifted her many skirts and left Charlotte there, acting indifferent to the fighting that had just taken place. Charlotte had a good feeling that if most of the woman of Paris were as like minded as that lass, settling in would be easier than previously assumed or at least amusing.

She felt a large presence at her side and tensed. But it was only Porthos.

"Typical." He asked.

Charlotte glanced over at him. "What?"

"After all that posturing you still find a moment for idle gossip. Very ..."

"Womanly?" She offered. "An aptly observation seeing as I am one." She looked back at the retreating blonde, "Besides, why toss up the opportunity to talk with a lovely lady."

The large man cocked his eyebrow and stared down at her. "Are your preferences swayed towards blondes ...?"

"That's for me alone to know and get your mind out of the gutter." As Charlotte shook her head, she saw Athos and Aramis striding towards them. They had just finished fending off their attackers and the last of the guards how had any sense about them were running off. Porthos went to meet them half way, a large grin on his face. "Well, a little shorter than I had hoped, but still good to stretch the legs."

Charlotte hung back a few feet from the trio. She was unsure just where all four of them were placed after this. Were they still going to fight? Did they remember her challenge? All previous motivations were lost in the fracas. Regardless her itch for a fight had calmed and she in no dire need to keep fighting.

Around her she heard the crowd's cheering pick up once more, the many voice all joining together to cry out a single word.

"MUSKETEERS! MUSKETEERS!"

The Musketeers in question stopped talking and looked all around at the applauding masses. Charlotte watched their expressions soften, well Aramis and Athos at least. Porthos seemed quite at ease the attention and bowed back to the people.

It didn't take long for Charlotte to understand their sudden silence. They were heros and if what Athos said was true it had been some time since they had the glory of being ones.

"They will be back, and with plenty of re enforcements." Arthos said, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. They were all in agreement with that and Athos was already walking off to retrieve his cloak and hat. "You'd best come with us Charlotte, now that you've painted a target on your back."

There was a pause before she could respond, her sword sheathed halfway, "How do you know that name?" She asked, more than a little suspicious. "I only told you ..."

Athos halted mid step and turned back to her. "You talk too loud."

That shut Charlotte up.

"Now unless you want to fight any entire army I suggest you take up the offer while you still can." He pivoted back around and resumed walking away.

Charlotte glanced at Porthos, who merely shrugged, then over to Aramis. The man was looking down at one of the fallen guards while clutching his cross, his lips moved quickly.

He was praying?

His eyes closed for a second and when they opened they flicked to Charlotte. They had gone so dark.

"Well." She cleared her throat and placed her hands on her hips, "Either I stay here and face possible death, or go with complete strangers and perhaps live another day."

"The latter does sound more appealing." Pothos chuckled, "Come on then." He slapped her arm as he passed, which so happened to be her injured arm. The impacted on his hand sent a thousand pins up her arm. Charlotte chocked on a yelp and protectively clutched her arm. "Welcome to Paris indeed."


End file.
